A House Divided
by Trainer Naps
Summary: As conflict in the mainlands of Valm and Ylisse draw the peaceful Republic of Aethenes ever closer to war, those who defend the Republic and her uninterrupted era of relative peace will be hard pressed to maintain their nation's neutrality. But there are


_**Prologue: The Message**_

**...**

_There lies a place 'yond where the sun_

_would dip beyond the shim'ring waters,_

_Far from where the "noble blood"_

_would bathe in fire their sons and daughters._

_Where change can come on gentle tides, _

_and ills can go with tender breeze._

_ Where those who sit and share the thrones _

_force no silence and bend no knees._

_O Gilded Goddess, O Blessed Saint, _

_shine thy light upon these shores._

_Upon the land that knows no shackles_

_Pax Aethena, evermore._

-Excerpt from _The Book of Trials: An Elegy of Sorrow. _

...

**The Keep, Sapphire Isle, Republic of Aethenes **

**4****th**** Age of Doubt **

**...**

The sun had only just began to dip over the horizon when the black dot that seemed to sprout right from it entered into the Watchman's plane of sight. Soon, the sun would begin the day's final crescendo of light as it sunk ever behind the side of the Earth, but not before the growing speck arrived at the Keep, it seemed. Not at the rate that it was going.

Corporal Gracchus Barrius, the same and only legionnaire to identify the approaching object, twisted the base of his reedy looking glass in hopes of getting a closer look at whatever was making for the tower, and quite hastily at that. Whether it be a harrowed rider looking for refuge after a storm or another pesky wild wyvern come to the Keep in search of a mate, it was the job of men like Gracchus to spot such things and alert the rest of the garrison so that they could prepare to receive (or repel) whatever was coming their way.

The object came into focus in the center of Gracchus' scope teetering back and forth in the air, nearly escaping his line of sight. With a steady hand, the soldier managed to get a fix on the UFO and identify it with sheer certainty.

It was in fact a wyvern, and there was in fact a rider perched upon its back. Man or woman, he could not tell at this distance; the vague shape of their body he was able to make out at his distance was no tell-all. This, and the fact that they were dressed in the concealing blue and white garb of the Republic Messenger Corps.

A speeding wyvern rider wearing _that_ kind of armor could mean a number of things, and not all of them good.

"Arturia," said Gracchus, looking up from his scope. "Are we expecting any riders today?"

From across the observation tower, Gracchus's partner Artoria Gratiana, set down her own looking glass and turned to her fellow soldier, a look of confusion in her eye. "Not that I know of. I was actually speaking with the Vexillator just this morning. He says that we aren't to expect anything until noon tomorrow."

Folding the scope into a much smaller and compact form and stowing it in a pouch on his belt, Gracchus stood and retrieved his helmet, cradling it under his arm. "Then we'd better go alert him. Because scheduled or not, that thing's going to arrive in the Nest in about five minutes."

…

Approximately four minutes and twenty nine seconds later, Vexillator Tiber Verulus arrived in the Nest accompanied by four of the garrison legionnaires. A completely armed detail, all four were fully harbed in the traditional battle wear of the Republic Legions: light gold and silver armor with an accompanying helmet, with scotus shields raised and gladius shortswords in their hands and at the ready.

Vexillator Verulus too was armed and armored, though much more regally. A finicky man, Verulus practiced the healthy habit of personally polishing his armor daily, among other things, just to be prepared for a surprise visit from a superior or a government official. Plus, it never hurt to look good if and when trouble came.

His uniform was similar to all those who stood under his command with two distinct differences. Emblazoned on his armor's left breast was the emblem of two flags crossed over a flaming torch that identified him as Vexillator, the Master of Communications. And draped over his shoulders was a white cape trimmed with gold fabric to commemorate his being the most senior officer of the Keep, the Sapphire Isle's central hub for wyvern and flare signal based communication.

"Be prepared for anything," ordered the Vexillator as he came to a halt about ten meters from the mouth of the Nest, where the encroaching wyvern would doubtlessly land as did all that came to the Watchtower. His command came softly with equal parts of concern and sternness; Verulus did not dismiss the possibility that the unscheduled messenger could be an assailant in disguise, but there existed the equal possibility that the man could have suffered through a perilous flight and be in dire need of medical aid.

The legionaries wordlessly obliged, fanning out with shields raised on the Vexillator's sides. True to the Vexillator's words, all four were ready for just about anything the potential fight could throw at them. Discipline was one of the main tenets that Aethenai military society could most proudly boast about. In the past few centuries, many had taken to favor the Legion's unofficial catchphrase of, "We can fight anyone, anywhere, anyhow." Legionaries always relished the chance to prove this.

With their hardy shields and sharp blades the legionnaires could put up a formidable defense against whatever might come their way, especially when coordinated. This was assuming, however, that an attack would come in the form of a melee assault.

Strapped to each of their backs were two throwing javelins, also standard issue, in the event that projectiles needed to be used. None of the four fretted too much over facing a mage or ranged attack, all things considered. The Vexillator himself was a veteran of a Cabal, where he fought alongside other battle mages for many years before accepting his post in the capitol.

After what seemed like hours, the wyvern finally touched down in the Keep. The slim black beast's wings flapped quick and shakily like it wanted nothing more than to have ground beneath it, and its breath was ragged. The rider slid out of his saddle without a second's hesitation, stumbling slightly as his boots hit the stone.

"Rider, identify yourself," Verulus sternly demanded, "Your arrival is unscheduled and you gave no signals to indicate anything contrary to you being a foe. Why, you're lucky we did not blast you out of the sky."

"I'd say you were pretty lucky yourself, Vexillator," the rider remarked as he reached into his satchel, disregarding the Vexillator entirely.

Verulus' cheeks burned scarlet. _Disrespectful Outer-Territory rubbish…_ "And why, pray tell, would that be?"

The rider gave no answer, but instead lifted his hand to show the Vexillator what was clutched dearly between his fingers. Immediately, the superior officer's face changed to a shade of white the rivaled the starkness of his cape.

In the courier's hand was a long capsule of gold and black with a very peculiar yet immediately recognizable seal at the end of it. It was a Senatorial Seal. Only one type of key could unlock the seal, and a mere three such keys existed.

"Get this man some food and water, and see to it that his wyvern is properly attended to," murmured Verulus to his escort, "And assemble a Praetorian convoy for immediate departure to Arcenium."

Holding out a hand, Verulus accepted the capsule from the passing courier as his men went about executing their orders, staying behind a moment to examine the thing. Inside that very capsule, he knew, was a scroll. And on that scroll was the only kind of news that was ever shut within a Senatorial Seal.

Bad news. Very, very bad news.


End file.
